Life With Writer

It must be hard to live with
a writer.
We are always
having a thought
that must be written down
and so,
our eternal quest for a slip of paper
a smartphone notepad
a pen from which we can squeeze
the last drop of ink
if we think
hard enough.
Our poor partners,
always solicitously enquiring
if we are all right,
if something is bothering us,
concerned if perhaps
we are upset,
forgetting
that when we
gaze out the window at the rain
we are not
melancholy –

well, perhaps a bit melancholy,
but it suits our souls –

we are just
making lyrical turns of phrase
from the droplets
weeping down the glass panes.
Just comfortably spinning yarns
and playing with words
and listening to the dance of the world,
hoping that we can remember the sound of soft wind
long enough to make note of it
somewhere that will last.